


Gowing Up Meredith

by lone_lilly



Category: Grey's Anatomy
Genre: Angst, Birthday, F/M, One Night Stand, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-04-22
Updated: 2006-04-22
Packaged: 2017-10-02 22:47:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lone_lilly/pseuds/lone_lilly





	Gowing Up Meredith

**Title:** Growing Up Meredith  
**Pairing:** M/D  
**Word Count:** 2621  
**Rating:** A solid PG-13. _Ish._  
**Spoiler:** Through 2x21: _Superstition_  
**Summary:** The carousel never stops turning. One day, hopefully, you'll stop wanting it to.

 

You stand in the doorway of your mother's room and watch her work. She's always busy, your mother, always rushing back to the hospital, always reading through countless journals when she is at home.

You aren't supposed to interrupt her when she's working but sometimes you just can't help yourself. It's too dark in your room, and Marthe, your nanny, gave you two pieces of birthday cake earlier and now you can't sleep.

But you don't go any farther into her bedroom beyond the threshold, because while sometimes you just _have_ to bother her, you don't necessarily _want_ to do it. Instead, you just stand there, holding your doll by the hand, while you stare at your mother.

She knows you are there, of course, even though you haven't said anything yet, she knows you're standing there. She's Ellis Grey. You've heard her tell people that, remind them that she _is_ Ellis Grey, and every time they apologize and say, "Of course, Dr. Grey. You're right." You are certain that part of _being_ Ellis Grey means knowing everything.

So, even though you are being quiet, and small, and she hasn't looked up from the notes she is busy scribbling down even one time, you aren't surprised when she says,

"You should be sleeping, Meredith."

"I had a bad dream, Mommy," you say, and now that she's acknowledged you, you decide you are free to climb into bed beside her and curl around your doll. She doesn't let you sleep in her bed very often but that's rarely kept you from trying now and then.

"You are six now," she reminds you. "You should be sleeping in your own b--"

"I dreamed you died," you say quietly and it's partly true. You _did_ dream she died and left you all alone, but that was three nights ago. You just haven't stopped thinking about it, yet.

She sighs and reaches out to stroke your bangs distractedly. It makes you uncomfortable when adults hug you, but you like when your mother plays with your hair. Marthe trims it all the time but she's never allowed to cut it short. Your mother won't let her and you don't want her to, anyway.

"It was just a dream," she says. "I'm not dying."

"Okay," you nod, but you don't get up and she doesn't make you.

You listen to the sound her pen makes as it travels across each line and you think about your birthday party earlier. Your friends from your new school were there, and your mother's friends had a barbeque on the deck, and Marthe lit your candles on your cake and made everyone sing to you when your mother got called back into surgery.

"Daddy didn't come to my party," you whisper and even at six you know it was the wrong thing to say because your mother's fingers drop away from your forehead and her voice is different when she says,

"No." And then, "You really should be in bed, Meredith."

You wait, hoping she'll change her mind, but her attention is back on her work, and so you crawl out of her bed and carry your doll back to your room. It's still too dark in there and suddenly you feel like you're going to cry.

You don't like the dark. You don't like your mother for moving you to Boston. And you really, really don't like being six.

~~

 

At thirteen, you still don't like the dark but you aren't afraid of it anymore. You just don't like being unable to _see_ things. Later, when you're older you'll decide it's a control issue, but for now, you only know that you're too old to sleep with a lamp on, too old to sleep with a doll, and definitely too old to seek out sanctuary in your mother's bed.

Not that you'd want to. Ellis Grey may know everything else, but she doesn't know anything about her daughter and you don't know enough, yet, to know that every thirteen year old girl feels that way, not just those with Ellis Grey as their mother.

Besides, she keeps her door shut all the time now, anyway.

When she's home, that is, which is almost never. She didn't even make it to any of your party this year, or last year, or the year before that one. Somewhere along the way, you'd stopped expecting her to show the same way you had stopped hoping your father would surprise you.

It's hard to be disappointed if you just don't care, you think with all the hopeful cynicism of a teenaged girl. It's doesn't matter if it's true or not. It sounds good in your brain.

Suddenly something snaps inside you and you can't let this birthday pass just like the others. Something needs to be different about today. You need to do something that will mark this day in your memory forever, as the day you, Meredith Grey, did something important.

For thirteen years your mother has tried to crush the impulsiveness right out of you, but all of that effort flies out the window as you bolt out of the bed and make your way into your bathroom, pausing only long enough to grab a pair of scissors from your desk drawer.

It takes you five minutes to do it and a little longer to clean up, but the result is amazing. You look at the pile of your hair in the trash bin and then at your reflection in the mirror and you smile. Marthe can shape it up for you later, but you did a pretty good job making the ends straight and even. Seven inches you chopped off but it feels like pounds of weight off your shoulders. You feel free.

Well, fre_er_ at any rate.

Impulsiveness aside, you know your mother is going to _kill_ you and it's that thought that keeps you awake awhile longer. But eventually you fall asleep, and while you still don't like the dark, and you still don't like your mother very much, and you still really don't like getting older, you've cut your hair short for the first time. And that's something.

~~

The night you turn sixteen you sneak away from your own birthday party to join Jimmy Payne in the back seat of his parents' car.

You suppose it's not really sneaking when the only person who would even care is Marthe and her only role in your life these days is to make sure you eat a proper dinner before she goes home to her grandkids. Your mother _might_ care if she were around, but she's been in Europe for the past three months and you've barely spoken to her recently.

Your friends will probably be upset once they realize you're gone, but Jimmy's your boyfriend and he begged you to meet him, so you do.

Jimmy begs you to do a lot of things that night and you do those too.

"I really, really like you," he promises, so you let him unbutton your pants _and_ take off your shirt. You already believed that he really likes you, loves you even, maybe, but hearing it makes all the difference in the world.

"I've done this before," he assures you and you believe that, too, until you're older and look back on this moment and wonder if he was telling the truth.

He fumbles at your breasts, makes short jerking movements inside you that hurt like hell, and kisses you sloppily (but oh so sweetly) afterwards.

You ask if the both of you can stay parked there on that hill overlooking the city for a little longer, and he says yes because it's your birthday. He runs his fingers over and over again through your hair as you stare at the pretty, twinkling lights and think that this must make you an adult now.

For once you're okay with that, you smile, and decide that this is probably one of the best birthdays you'll ever have.

~~

By twenty-four, you have perfected the art of the one night stand.

"It's my birthday," you say to the man sitting beside you at the bar. This time it happens to be true. "Would you like to buy me a drink?"

Of course he does. You are young, and pretty enough, and most importantly _there_, and that's really all it takes. You get drunk enough to actually think his jokes are funny, you get _him_ drunk enough to sing 'Happy Birthday' to you, and then you ask him to take you for a ride. Somewhere, you say. Anywhere.

He likes that you want to leave a lamp on while you screw. He likes that your hair is long and tickles his legs as you kiss your way down his body. He likes that you giggle the next morning when you tell him you're going to take a shower and when you get out he won't be there.

You like that for an entire evening you never once thought about your sick mother, or med school, or any of the other things that keep you awake at night.

~~

You meet Derek two weeks after your twenty-nineth birthday.

The intern mixer is boring like you knew it would be and you leave early, choosing instead to sit on a bench outside of the hospital, staring up at the giant panes of glass and thinking about your mother. She doesn't think you'll make a good surgeon and you wonder whether you should believe her. She is Ellis Grey, after all, and she knows everything.

But you are Meredith Grey and you've made a habit of living your life to spite your mother. You decided a long time ago it was better to do it on purpose than do it accidentally. It hurts less that way.

The thing that's problematic is you really, really want to be a surgeon. Not just to prove your mother wrong, but because you actually want to save lives. You want to do something important. Something that matters.

And if you fail, she isn't the only one you'll disappoint.

Your mother is one of the greatest surgeons in modern medicine. You just want to make it through your first day.

And so you look over at the bar across the street and that famous Meredith recklessness kicks in and you're on your feet before you even have time to think about the consequences.

'The Emerald City Bar' the sign says and you mutter "Not in freaking Kansas anymore" as you step inside. It's dark and fairly empty; only a handful of people scattered around, and you realize right off the bat you're the only woman in there.

All of the men except for one give your little black, strappy dress the once over and watch you make your way to the bar where you order two shots of tequila. The guy that didn't look when you entered the bar looks now, quirking a smile and nodding approvingly at the two shot glasses in front of you before turning back to his own drink.

"What?" you challenge, choosing the seat directly beside him. "It's my birthday, can't I have a drink?"

He takes in a breath, looks at you contemplatively, and shakes his head. "It's not your birthday."

"How do you know?"

"Is it?"

"Yes," you lie. It's not so dark that you can't see his eyes twinkling as he looks at you, and you smile in spite of yourself. "No."

He smirks knowingly and nudges one of your shots closer to you. You roll your eyes, still grinning under his attention, and down the alcohol with one swallow.

He nods again, impressed, and taps the bar, silently ordering you another. You've always liked a guy who would make the first move.

You swallow the next two shots and he surprises you by asking you when your birthday really is and you surprise yourself by telling him. He buys you a fourth shot and you buy him another of whatever he's drinking just to even things out.

He tells you jokes that actually _are_ funny, even if you are drunk, and you find that you can't stop staring at his mouth and how he smiles when he teases you.

It takes you longer to get him to the car than most of the others, but when you pull yourself up on your knees and lean over the console to kiss him, he tangles his fingers in the ends of your hair and you know you've got him.

He kisses you so well, you forget to ask about the lights when you get back to your mother's house. Hell, you don't even remember to make it to the bed.

He likes that you maneuver him so that you're on top and your hair spills over your shoulders as you move.

You like that he shakes your hand the next morning after you humiliatingly admit you don't know his name.

In the shower, you let yourself regret for the briefest of moments that you won't see him again.

~~

Seriously? you think. This is my life?

You are thirty years old today. There won't be a party, just like there hasn't been a party for eight years. There is only another forty-eight hour shift behind you, a mountain of paperwork that needs to be finished, and an empty house to return to when it's over.

Izzy might have baked you a cake if she'd known, but you never bothered to tell her, and she's so busy babysitting Denny these days, there's no guarantee she would have remembered anyway.

George would have done something nice for you if you hadn't broken him. He would have taken you to play Putt-Putt or bought you an ice cream cone from the cafeteria and stuck a candle in it. How selfish are you that you wish you hadn't broken him, just so you'd have someone to put a balloon on your locker, or make you try some weird concoction of alcohol at Joe's in celebration?

You are selfish, but right now you don't even care. You turn thirty today and all you can think about is how many birthdays you've spent trying to forget your mother and the irony that she didn't even recognize you this morning at breakfast.

"The carousel never stops turning," she told you once and suddenly you hate her with a ferocity you haven't felt in a very long time. Who is she to remind you life isn't fair? As if you've ever had the opportunity to forget.

You've spent the better part of your twenty-nineth year loving a man who refuses to choose you. Even when you begged. Even when you cried in front of him _twice_. Even when you spent an entire day holding a bomb, even _then_, the most he could give you was a wicked smile and the story of your last kiss.

So you still condition your hair with that lavender stuff you get from the salon, even though it leaves your hair limp, because he likes the way it smells. And you walk your dog-- his dog, their dog, _whatever_\-- every other day with him because he wants to be friends and you're so tired of being alone you couldn't come up with any good reason not to, after a point.

And even though you know that you're just begging karma to look you in the eye and ask, 'Seriously? You think you can get away with _that_?' you smile when you open your locker and find a tiny pair of sapphire earrings inside.

Indigo, because he doesn't like light blue.

You don't say a word about them to anyone, but you wear them when the two of you walk Doc the next day, and when Derek reaches out to untangle a strand of your hair from the stud he smiles at you. And you smile back.

Because you are hopeless and full of hope and thirty.


End file.
